Everyone has their vice of choice. Some find themselves at the bottom of a bottle of Makers Mark, while others seek refuge between the legs of women whose names enigmatically illuminate the sky for a night, only to be wiped away by the first rays of dawn. As for myself, although not opposed to the latter, have found no better lover than the road. Just when I got her pegged as a good girl she stumbles through the back door at three a.m. drunk and screaming ‘cause she can’t find her cigarettes.       Sure, she might be rough around the edges, tirelessly unreliable, borderline psychotic, but at the end of the day when my head hits the pillow and I’m left with nothing but my thoughts, a content grin creeps upon my face reassuring me that at least she’s not a boring prude. If the road was a mistress she would indeed take you by the hand and show you the unfathomable, make sweet love to you beneath the great sea of stars and that very night slip out the back door without even a note. Yes, the road has been my blushin’ bride since I can care to remember, and despite the countless times she’s walked out on me I always leave the door unlocked, for I know, she’ll be back